


Backchannels

by clio_jlh



Category: Bottle Shock (2008), Bourne Supremacy (2004)
Genre: Bisexual Character, Challenge Response, Cold War, Crossover, Espionage, First Time, Gay Male Character, Humor, LGBTQ Character, M/M, Post-Canon, Romance, Time Travel, Wine, farming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-18
Updated: 2011-09-18
Packaged: 2017-10-23 21:57:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/255445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clio_jlh/pseuds/clio_jlh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It should be weirder to be standing in the middle of West Berlin and watch a car appear out of nowhere with the man you've dreamt of since you were a boy behind the wheel.  It should be weirder to travel back in time almost 30 years and wake up to see the angel who's been protecting you for decades.  But what's actually weird is how completely not weird it feels.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Backchannels

**Author's Note:**

> As if crossing over two movies wasn't enough, I also borrowed a device from _Life on Mars_ (but not _Ashes to Ashes_!)

When Bo was a kid, buzz-cut head ducking and covering from pretend nuclear attack under a metal desk, knobbly knees skinned from playing Cowboys-and-Indians in the fields behind the house in his official coonskin cap, he would dream about Russia. In the day he couldn't imagine living in a place so grey, where it was always winter and you weren't free to listen to Elvis. But the dreams were old-timey, like the movies his mother liked, riding across the snow in a horse-drawn sled buried in furs. Sometimes his parents were there, sometimes a friend, but always sitting next to him there was a little Russian boy, solemn-faced and hazel-eyed.

When he was a young man rambling across the country, Bo would look for that boy, even though he knew it was unlikely that any Russian boy would be at Woodstock or a protest march in Chicago or smoking Maui wowie in the Haight or in whatever caravan Bo had found himself traveling with. He couldn't help himself; he felt the pull of this boy, always. When he did have sex with men they were always dark-haired and slow to smile.

What Bo didn't know, couldn't know, is that he would need some cosmic help to find that boy, because he hadn't been born yet.

* * *

The last thing Kirill remembered was Jason Bourne standing outside the car, gun in hand, _not_ shooting him. Kirill certainly would have, had the roles been reversed; they'd both been trained to finish the job they started. Kirill stared at him, blood dripping into his eyes, as Bourne dropped his gun and walked away.

His fellow agents had always said he had an angel on his shoulder; it was why he was sent on the more dangerous missions, because he always managed to slither out of any difficulties. Kirill never said that sometimes he literally saw his angel—a beautiful boy, blue-eyed and blond-haired—nudging him in one direction or another. But the angel had never gone this far, never gotten an enemy to lay down his weapon when Kirill was injured and helpless.

Kirill had never before had any regrets about what he'd been ordered to do by his country and the oligarchs that ran it. He'd studied history at university and understood only too well how easily Russia could devolve into chaos. The world could not long withstand a nuclear superpower becoming, in essence, a larger, wealthier and more dangerous Sudan. But as his breath started to rattle in his chest, he wished he'd never taken that job in Berlin.

He blinked, and saw the face of his angel.

"Don't move," the angel said in a soothing deep voice, and Kirill realized he'd never heard him actually speak. "Help is coming."

Kirill grinned, for this was surely God's idea of a good joke, sending an American angel to bring him to hell.

* * *

 _27 May 1976_

Kirill recognized the smell and sounds of the hospital before he opened his eyes—sterile, medicinal, soft beeps of machinery. He wondered why he'd been put in such a shit place; surely as FSB he ranked a hospital that had made it out of the 1970s.

"Hey, you're back with us," said a voice just outside the range of Kirill's ability to focus. He blinked, and saw the angel again, smiling down on him. "I was worried. Water?"

Kirill nodded as he regarded the angel, who must be merely a man, so long as this wasn't hell. Or at least an angel in need of some new clothes, judging by the flare on his jeans. American-made, though; one could always tell.

"So, I'm Bo," he said. "We couldn't find any ID or papers on you."

Kirill's brow furrowed before he remembered the Moscow police stopping him, frisking him and checking his badge, and that he'd grabbed only his gun before setting off again after Bourne.

"I am Kirill," he said.

Bo nodded. "I thought you might be Russian. Guess you went through a lot to get here."

"Where?"

"West Berlin. You made it across the wall, man. I saw most of it—it was like your car came out of _nowhere_."

"The wall?" Kirill asked.

Bo raised an eyebrow. "Yeah, you know—the big one that cuts through the middle of the city? Been there about fifteen years? Checkpoint Charlie and all that jazz? You _are_ a defector, aren't you?"

Kirill did the math in his head, though it ached to do so. "1976?" he asked.

"Yep," Bo replied, bouncing a little on his heels.

So.

Either he was dead, and hell was an antiquated hospital, a headache, and a beautiful American angel who spoke in riddles;

Or this was Bourne's idea of revenge for killing his woman—unlikely, as simply shooting Kirill would have been more Bourne's style, and he didn't;

Or this was some kind of elaborate prank, though Kirill couldn't think of anyone who would go to such lengths;

Or this was a dream and he was slowly dying in a crashed car in Moscow;

Or he'd gone mad.

Whichever it was, there was no reason not to indulge himself with this young man-or-angel, as he was made to order. "Why are you here?" Kirill asked.

"Me? I was in France for a work thing. Always wanted to see West Berlin; it's supposed to be a fun town. But not really my kind of fun, I guess."

"No, why are you _here_?"

"Oh," Bo said, and blushed just slightly. "Well, you were alone, and like I said it isn't really my kind of town. You weren't out for long, anyway—just overnight. I felt like, well, you smiled at me, before you passed out in the car, and I thought you'd like a friendly face to wake up to."

"Handsome, too," Kirill said. "Thank you."

Bo smiled at him.

The doctor came in then, all brusque German efficiency, shining a light in Kirill's eyes. He was glad Bo had told him the year, as the doctor asked him, so clearly he was in on whatever scheme was going. But the pain was real enough.

"You were lucky," the doctor said in German. "No internal injuries, just a head wound. We'll keep you here another night or two to make sure nothing bad is hiding from us. Then you can go to the country of your choice."

"For what purpose?" Kirill asked.

"The defection, of course," the doctor replied. He glanced at Bo, who sat watching but not understanding the conversation, then leaned closer to Kirill. "Did you do it for him?" he asked with a wicked smile. "He seems handsome enough to leave everything you know behind."

Kirill merely smiled back; the doctor could think what he wanted.

After the doctor left Bo stayed teaching Kirill how to play American card games until the nurses threw him out. He promised to return the next day, and for that Kirill was grateful.

* * *

By the second day Kirill had settled into the dream idea. Too long to be a prank; to comfortable to be revenge; too consistent to be madness; and he was actually healing, which ruled out hell.

Also Bo, while looking disconcertingly like Kirill's angel, was clearly a man.

"My people are farmers," he said in response to Kirill's question. "In California. We make wine. Well, my dad does."

"Do you want to?" Kirill asked.

"Yeah," Bo replied, though he sounded unsure.

"What is in the way?"

Bo shrugged. "Never wanted to be tied down, I guess," he replied. "Now I'm thinking about going to school for agriculture."

"So? Why not go to this school?"

"Oh, I dunno …" Bo said, looking down at his cards.

Suddenly Kirill thought perhaps it wasn't Bo who was _his_ angel, because he knew exactly what to say, even though he'd only known this man twenty-four hours. Maybe he was sent to get Bo's beautiful head out of his fantastically tight ass.

"You think that if you don't try you cannot fail," Kirill said. "But _not_ trying is failure."

"You sound like my dad."

Kirill shrugged. "America is home of brave, yes?"

Bo nodded.

"Then be brave," he said. He laid his cards down. "I am out."

Bo put down their scores and gathered up the cards again. "What about you?" he asked.

"My father was also farmer," Kirill said. "Potatoes. And he had still for village. They bring potatoes, we ferment them, village has vodka."

"Kind of like us," Bo said.

"Smaller, I think," Kirill replied. "Most potatoes were for state."

"But you're not a farmer."

"I helped, when young. But I was clever boy, went to university for history. Then FSB wanted me."

"FSB?"

Ah, yes, 1976. "KGB," he corrected. "I am—was—assassin for KGB."

Bo's eyebrows shot up, and Kirill thought how refreshing it was to be with someone who didn't—perhaps couldn't—hide what he was feeling. "So you could kill me right now, and walk out of this hospital, and disappear?"

"Da," Kirill replied, because he was beginning to tire and English had never been his best language.

"Wow," Bo said, just staring at him, his blue eyes very wide and making him look even more boyish.

Kirill sighed, remembering how sure he’d been that he was going to hell. "I have done many bad things," he admitted.

"Under orders?" Bo asked.

He nodded.

Bo shrugged. "I know guys who killed in Vietnam. Not their fault the whole thing was a clusterfuck. Or the men who bombed Cambodia—that was Nixon's look out, not theirs."

"Huh," Kirill said, feeling strangely lighter, and he realized that he'd been worried about what Bo would think when he knew the truth. He didn't remember the last time he'd even thought about that.

"Guess you don't have anyone at home," Bo said, "since you're here alone."

"My parents are dead," he said. "I have …." He paused, because they weren't friends, these people he knew. "Contacts. Others to drink with."

"Hard to connect when you move around," Bo said, which Kirill thought was generous.

"You?" Kirill asked, though he wasn't sure he really wanted to know.

"Thought I had a girl," he said, "but she decided on someone else. Just as well. Gustavo's a good guy."

Kirill nodded. Maybe this _was_ hell, to be so close to this man and not be able to have him.

"And I don't want her anymore, anyway," Bo continued.

Kirill looked up, and caught Bo staring at him, his intent unmistakable. Kirill was breathing just a little faster, and he probably wasn't hiding much either, because Bo was smiling and leaning forward and they were kissing. Kirill was in bed, in a polyester hospital gown, his head half shaved, and a beautiful American boy was awkwardly stretched across a lap table to kiss him.

"Ha ha!" said a voice at the door, and they separated.

It was the doctor, gleeful in the validation of his guess from the day before, and in English he said to Bo, "Let's not raise the patient's blood pressure too much, eh? The nurses will suspect," and winked.

Bo snickered, unrepentant and unashamed.

"Tomorrow you can take him away to America," the doctor continued. "Just one more night is all we need."

"Good, I will," Bo said, seriously, like he was making a vow.

* * *

The next morning Bo bought Kirill some clothes—his own had been torn and bloody—and they went immediately from the hospital to the US Mission. Kirill kept Bo with him as long as possible, but once it was known he'd been FSB—KGB, he had to keep saying—he was whisked away to another floor. Kirill used the test cases taught to him in training, all hits that were never tracked, as his bona fides, and then made his bargain: further information in exchange for a sum large enough to get a parcel of good arable land in California, set up a farm, have some financial security. Papers were signed and as he began to speak he was very, very grateful for his chosen thesis topic at university.

"Gentlemen," he said, "do you know what is happening in Afghanistan?"

* * *

When Kirill emerged hours later Bo was waiting for him. Kirill had two plane tickets to America and a new passport with orders to report to DC first. But he also had a nice hotel room, and all he could think of, now, was getting Bo into that bed.

Bo had the same idea, apparently, as it only took seconds after the bellhop left the room for Bo to get naked and pull Kirill down onto the bed with him. The first time was quick, just kissing and rubbing against each other, and one would think they had built up their hunger for each other over centuries instead of just three days.

Kirill cleaned them up with an extra pillowcase. They lay on the bed afterward, breath slowly coming back to normal, limbs still entwined.

"I need to tell you something," Kirill said.

"Something other than that you're a hit man?" Bo asked. He was running his hands across Kirill's chest, slowly, dreamily.

"I am from future," Kirill said. "I crashed my car in Moscow winter 2004, and woke up in Berlin spring 1976."

"So that's where your car came from," Bo said. "The future. Makes sense."

"What do you mean?"

"I meant it when you came out of nowhere," he replied. "I thought I was the only one who saw the car, and maybe I was at first. But then I saw you were in it, and I had to help, and once I got to it other people came over, too."

"Me?" Kirill asked. "You know me?"

Bo shifted, so he was looking at Kirill, and said, "You're the man of my dreams. Literally—I recognized you because I've been dreaming about you since we were kids. Or since I was a kid, anyway. And I was standing there, disappointed because I thought maybe I'd find you here, and wanting to ask you what I should do next with my life because I didn't know, and then you fell out of the sky next to me."

"Like angel," Kirill said.

"Yeah," Bo said. "You called me that, when you were out of it."

"That is what you were, all this time, for me," he said. "I saw you often. My parents tried for long time for baby, were old when they had me. You came after they died, helped me feel less alone. You helped me on missions when I wasn't sure, kept me alive."

They were silent after that, staring at each other and drifting, and then Bo said, "Well, maybe it isn't so weird if we both felt it."

"Maybe," Kirill said. "But I don't think we should tell anyone else." He leaned in and kissed Bo, and they were at it again, rolling in the sheets, hands all over each other.

"Fuck," Bo moaned.

"Yes," Kirill said. "Yes, that."

"What?"

"That, I want that."

Bo, who was on top, sat up slightly, a hand on Kirill's chest. "You want to fuck me?"

Kirill spun his hand in a circle. "Other way."

"Really?"

"I say only what I mean," Kirill replied.

"All right," Bo said, kneeling back on his haunches. As he stared at the wall, thinking, Kirill admired him—slim, but taut; muscles that looked used. He kept one hand on Kirill, stroking his skin absently, and his callouses gave it an edge, making Kirill itch pleasantly. "Okay," he said, leaping up and wandering into the bathroom, then coming back with a small courtesy bottle of lotion, which he tossed on the bed.

"You've done this before?" Kirill asked.

Bo nodded. "You?"

"Not this way," he admitted. "The other way, with woman, not men. Future, is complicated."

"Blond men?" Bo asked, putting some lotion on his fingers.

"I may have had type," Kirill replied, making Bo laugh.

"Spread 'em," Bo said, and Kirill did so eagerly. If he could have, he would have opened the center of himself to this man, though he suspected he already had, somehow.

Bo lay next to him, his free hand stroking Kirill's chest as his fingers worked Kirill open. The affection in those bright blue eyes would have been too much from anyone else, but lying here, feeling Bo inside him, it was just about enough. "Angel," he said.

"That's angel, right?" Bo asked. "It sounds like it."

Kirill blinked and realized he must have said that in Russian. "Yes, angel," he repeated in English.

"I like it better the other way," Bo said. "Say something else. Say everything."

"But you won't understand—"

"Yes, I willl," Bo said.

So Kirill started talking, as best he could with Bo working him open, everything he had never said to someone else, things he'd said to his angel when he was alone at night.

Bo just smiled and said, "I know, I know." He slicked himself and eased into Kirill slowly, slowly, and it was hot and sweet and so much more than anything had ever been.

Kirill suddenly realized they could be like this for always, and his breath hitched. He could change his life now—they both could—into something better, something good.

"You okay?" Bo asked.

Kirill nodded. "You talk, now," he said.

Bo said it all back to him, and it _was_ the same and he _had_ understood and no it didn't make sense but maybe they never would, or they did in some plane that wasn't just here and now but everywhere and always. Maybe there were dozens of them coming together in dozens of ways, and this was just their way.

Or maybe Kirill just became philosophical when he was being fucked. Either way.

For he was being fucked, long and slow and hard, taking Bo into the center of himself, open for all of it. His heels dug into Bo's back, pushing him closer, urging him on like a horse to gallop. Kirill had one hand on his cock while the other snaked around his back, feeling the muscles work as Bo fucked him.

Bo wasn't talking now, just staring him in the eye and panting, and when he came it was just as gorgeous as that first rushed time. He quickly put his hand on top of Kirill's and they brought him off together.

Bo flipped over onto his back next to Kirill, but kept one hand against his chest, which Kirill grabbed hold of, and they squeezed as they recovered, panting.

"When's our flight?" Bo asked.

"Tomorrow night," Kirill replied.

"Good," Bo said. "Plenty of time for more of _that_."

"Yeah," Kirill replied. "Plenty of time."

* * *

 _three and a half years later_

Kirill settled into Napa as though he had always lived there. He made friends among Bo's vineyard pals—he and Gustavo got on like a house on fire—and the scattered Russian immigrants around the valley. And whenever he said something anachronistic Bo would smile and ask "Is that a Russian thing?" to cover over Kirill's confusion.

He bought a little farm with the money the government gave him and got right down to growing potatoes. Bo helped him build a still out in the barn, the same still Kirill's father used, he said. He tested potato varieties and blends at Joe's bar as well as with his Russian friends, and between the two he sold enough bottles to keep his experiments going.

Bo moved in immediately, dividing his time between school and working for his father. While his mother wasn't altogether pleased with her son being in a relationship with a man, his father credited Kirill with Bo having "finally calmed down," which made Kirill "A-OK in my book."

This was just as well as Bo had no intention of letting Kirill into that boxing ring with his dad; he suspected that in a pressure situation Kirill's KGB training would take over.

Kirill and Bo had had Christmas Eve lunch with Gustavo's family, and tomorrow they were driving into the city for what was bound to be a cold, awkward Christmas with Bo's mother, but tonight was just theirs. They were cuddled on the couch under an afghan, watching the sunset through the picture window. So it was a surprise to both of them when an official-looking car turned into the drive.

"Trouble?" Bo asked, lifting his head from Kirill's shoulder.

"I am seven years old," he replied. "I haven't caused any yet." He got up, and Bo followed him out onto the porch.

They were CIA and not trying to hide it: a driver, a guard, and a man in a suit. The man came up onto the porch. "Kirill?" he asked.

"Yes," he replied.

"The Soviets invaded Afghanistan today," said the agent. "We figure you'd like to know."

"Thanks," Kirill said.

"I've come to give you this as a gesture of our appreciation." He reached into his jacket and handed Kirill an envelope that Bo assumed contained some kind of payment. "And we wanted to ask you if you'd be willing to consult with the Agency from time to time."

"My life is here now," Kirill said.

The man nodded. "They said you might say that." He peered at Bo. "Is this the man who was with you in Germany?"

"Yes," Bo replied.

"Good," he said. "Stability is often hard to find, for defectors."

Bo glanced at Kirill, surprised that the CIA approved of their defectors becoming gay artisinal vodka distillers, but perhaps they'd seen worse. Kirill was staring the man down, and Bo could sense the steel in his spine he usually kept well hidden.

"If you want to come here sometime," Kirill said, "have dinner, talk, overpay for vodka, that could be arranged."

"We may well do that," the man said, nodding.

"But call first," Kirill said. "That's considered polite in America."

"Of course." The man held out a gloved hand. "Merry Christmas," he said.

Kirill shook it, but merely nodded, and the man quickly left.

"Well," Bo said.

Kirill turned and put his arm around Bo to lead him back into the house. "We take their money," Kirill said, "and next Christmas we spend in warm place."

"Yeah?" Bo said, smiling.

"Have you been to Goa?" Kirill asked. "Is nice."

Bo raised his eyebrows. "No, but sounds like you have," he said, shutting the door behind them.

"No questions," Kirill said, which was code for, "Yes, I was there to kill someone, but we don't talk about that."

"Doesn't matter," Bo said, pulling Kirill into his arms. "You'll forget all about the last time once you've been there with me."

"Am counting on that," Kirill said, and kissed him.


End file.
